‘We checked all the shutters.’ Father Thomas spoke. ‘Sir Hugh, I have been to the reclusorium before; there are no secret entrances or tunnels. The lake is wide and deep, every entrance was locked and bolted, except for the shutter Pennywort broke.’
Corbett thanked them. He asked Father Thomas to bless the corpse then help Pennywort and Physician Ormesby remove it to the manor.
‘There is a death house there, isn’t there?’
Ormesby nodded. ‘A small room in the cellars. I’d best dress the corpse there. I’ll tell you faithfully what I observe, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett rose and crossed to inspect the corpse. He studied it most closely, asking Ormesby and Ranulf to lift it up so as to scrutinise the seat of the chair.
‘In my perception,’ he murmured, ‘Lord Scrope was in bed but moved to sit here when the assassin struck. He drove that dagger into Scrope’s heart; Scrope’s right hand went up to grasp the blade and was splashed with blood; he leaned forward, hence more blood on the floor, then fell back.’
Physician Ormesby agreed.
‘Very good, very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Sirs, Dame Marguerite, please excuse me.’ He beckoned Ranulf to join him, and once again they searched that chamber, the shutters, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the door, but Corbett could find nothingamiss. He sat on the bed and watched Ormesby, assisted by Pennywort and Father Thomas, lift the corpse up and carry it out to the waiting boat. Dame Marguerite came over, eyes brimming with tears.
‘Sir Hugh, his soul?’
‘Gone to God now, Dame Marguerite. I suggest that you also return to the manor. You must have pressing business at your convent, but Lady Hawisa will need some comfort.’
The abbess nodded in agreement and went outside.
Corbett followed her and stood at the top of the steps watching them place the corpse in one boat whilst Ormesby, the priest and Dame Marguerite clambered into the other now brought across.
‘Tell Lady Hawisa,’ Corbett called, ‘I am going to seal the reclusorium. No one is to be allowed in.’ He returned inside. He and Ranulf did their best with the broken shutter and stretched a rug across the gap. Ranulf fetched the chancery bag and Corbett sealed the edge of the rug fixed against the wall. He then scrutinised the chamber once more and left, locking the door and placing the key in his belt. He impressed his seal along the rim of the door then went around the outside of the reclusorium and did the same on every shutter.
‘I doubt,’ he declared, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing on his fingers, ‘whether anyone will come across here. I’ll give strict instructions to Pennywort that no one except you or I is to visit this place. Ranulf, I feel ice in my veins. I must thaw my blood and reflect on what we’ve seen.’
When they reached the jetty, Pennywort, full of the highest estimation for this generous royal clerk, was already waiting for them. He brimmed with news. The manor was in completedisarray. Brother Gratian and Dame Marguerite were already issuing instructions about doors being locked and sealed against any possible thefts; Master Claypole was also busy on this. Corbett nodded as Pennywort leaned over the oars and pulled away, still chattering about the effect of Lord Scrope’s death and wondering what would happen. Once on the other side he gave the boatman strict instructions and immediately adjourned to an eerily silent manor house, its servants slipping like shadows along the galleries and passageways. He found his chamber already prepared by Chanson, who’d built up the fire, lit candles and ordered some dried meats, bread, cheese and butter from the buttery along with tankards of ale. Corbett thanked him. He and Ranulf sat in front of the fire, hands out to thaw their frozen figures.
‘I’m so cold,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I’ll be glad when winter’s past and spring comes.’
‘Last night’s mayhem?’
‘Well, Ranulf, certain facts are established. First, Lord Scrope went across to the Island of Swan by himself. No one was waiting for him, Pennywort confirmed that. The boatman left. Lord Scrope locked and bolted himself inside his reclusorium: a small fortified house on an island surrounded by an icy lake. Second, that lake can only be crossed by boat; according to the evidence, there was no sign of that happening once Lord Scrope locked himself in. Third, however, during that night someone did cross the lake, entered that locked and secured hermitage and stabbed Lord Scrope to the heart. Fourth, Lord Scrope was a warrior, he was a killer, yet the evidence indicates that he offered not the slightest resistance. He was sitting in that chair when the assassin plunged the blade into his heart. Fifth, the dagger belongs to the King. Now there’s a riddle! LordScrope must have had that precious item locked in his treasure chest. He must have opened it and actually given his murderer the weapon that was later used against him. Strange, Ranulf.’ Corbett stretched his feet towards the flames. ‘Those chests and coffers were not prised or broken open. Scrope must have opened them for his would-be murderer then put the key-chain back round his own neck. Why? Someone he truly trusted? A person who could kill him in the twinkling of an eye? As the psalmist says, death was sprung like a trap! How could a devious, suspicious man like Scrope be so easily trapped? Ah well …’
Corbett grasped his tankard. ‘Sixth, at no time did Lord Scrope show any anxiety or try to raise the alarm outside, nothing at all. Seventh, once Scrope was dead, the assassin plundered the treasury and escaped unscathed and unnoticed, going through locked shutters, brick walls or a fortified door, not to mention crossing a freezing lake without any assistance, no boat, raft or any other wherry. Guards were sitting close by, yet they saw nothing untoward. Eighth, according to Pennywort, no one crossed that lake until Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas approached him early this morning. They only gained access by breaking in. Now, it is possible that all three are accomplices in a conspiracy to murder, but I consider that’s nigh impossible; not a shred of evidence exists to indicate it. Moreover, Lord Scrope appears to have been slain in the early hours, long before his guests arrived. Ninth, that cup of poison? What does that mean? If someone went across to murder Lord Scrope, why take poison with them? However,’ Corbett put his tankard down and, taking a pair of iron tongs, moved one of the crackling logs so that it burst, giving off more flames and heat, ‘we do know the murderer.’
‘Master?’
‘The Sagittarius, it must be,’ Corbett declared. ‘That’s why the mastiffs were killed, as well as Robert de Scott. They weren’t just acts of revenge; the assassin was preparing for last night’s bloody work. Imagine, Ranulf, the freezing cold darkness; the guards would stay close to the fire. Now and again they’d glance towards the reclusorium or the lake. Dogs are different: they wander, they pick up scent, and they notice things we humans don’t. They had to go, and so they did. The same with Robert de Scott, a man close to his master’s dark doings. The Sagittarius learnt that Robert was roistering in that tavern. He took up position and killed him. Robert de Scott was Lord Scrope’s man body and soul. He wasn’t there last night; the usual vigilance of bodyguard and dog was removed. The important thing about assassination, Ranulf, is that to murder the likes of Lord Scrope, you must first remove the guards. The Sagittarius did that. However,’ Corbett placed the iron tongs down, ‘who the Sagittarius is and how he actually killed Scrope – I don’t know.’
‘How will you resolve this, master?’ Chanson brought across a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat and served out portions on to the pewter plates Ranulf held. The Clerk of the Stables was fascinated by what had happened. He wondered how Sir Hugh would deal with it. He loved to observe Corbett question people; it was better than watching lurchers chase a hare!
‘How shall we resolve it, Chanson?’ Corbett cut himself a piece of meat and tore off some bread. ‘We’ll leave it for the time being; let evil have its day. I want to move and move quickly. The King will be displeased that Scrope is murdered; he’ll be even more furious that his dagger was used and the Sanguis Christi andother items stolen. We have so many questions to ask so many people. Accordingly, tomorrow morning we’ll establish a court of oyer and terminer: myself and Ranulf, with Physician Ormesby sworn in as the third justice. We will hold it in the manor hall and summon them all on oath. That will be best. For the time being I have to reflect.’